Stitch in Time
by Besina
Summary: John snuck from shadow to shadow, furtively ducking into alleyways, sometimes having to hold stock still for minutes on end as traffic and late-night pedestrians wandered by. His heart thumped hard in his chest and he fought to keep his breathing steady. Adrenaline and the fear of discovery raced through his veins. He hadn't felt this paranoid or hyper-vigilant since his tour...


John snuck from shadow to shadow, furtively ducking into alleyways, sometimes having to hold stock still for minutes on end as traffic and late-night pedestrians wandered by. His heart thumped hard in his chest and he fought to keep his breathing steady. Adrenaline and the fear of discovery raced through his veins. He hadn't felt this paranoid or hyper-vigilant since his tour in Afghanistan. He noted every sight, every sound, every whisper that could possibly indicate he'd been seen.

The alleyways were his best bet and he took them whenever he could. Save for the stench of rotting garbage, stale beer and piss, he was largely glad to have one, though passing through it proved perilous on bare feet as the grit of who-knows-what pressed up through his toes and he had to look carefully to avoid shards of broken glass. Still, he moved quietly, and was briefly thankful for all his escapades with Sherlock having branded the backstreets of London into his brain.

There were parts which left him without an alley to duck into and devoid of shadows to cover him in safety: cross-streets, stoplights and their ilk terrified him the most. These were the ones which left him waiting the longest, then running with his heart in his throat, across streets which were momentarily still due only to the lateness of the evening, and darting for the shadows once more.

Baker Street, though not as much a thoroughfare as some of the streets in London, still possessed a fair amount of traffic, and no alleys close by the door to 221B. He'd grabbed some gravel as a forethought in the last alley in which he'd waited. It wasn't as brightly lit as some other streets he'd passed, but still too bright to be of much comfort, and it was a long, straight stretch coming from Speedy's side, before he'd reach the door.

Sticking his head around the corner briefly to check for passersby and traffic, he took a deep breath and ran for it, hands held low. Oh dear, he'd heard the chattering of women, they'd just rounded the opposite corner. He quickly ducked into a small space between the door on the opposite of Speedy's and the café itself. There was little place to crouch and light still shone in, but there was very little he could do about that. He stood there, looking as nonchalant as he could, hoping to fade into the brickwork as the two women approached and passed him, staring with disbelieving faces as they did so. There was nothing for it, so he just nodded companionably and greeted them with "Ladies," before they continued on their walk, rather more quickly, one of them commenting "Disgusting," to her friend as they moved on, making John's shoulders slump somewhat. Still, he was nearly home, and no one else seemed to be on the street. He dashed forward until he stood before 221B, afforded no choice but to step backward on the pavement, even more into the light, as he hurled small handfuls of gravel up at the windows, hoping against hope that Sherlock would notice before he ran out.

Luckily, although dismissing the sound as a mere annoyance at first, Sherlock eventually cottoned on to it as a call for his attention. Striding to the windows and looking down, a sardonic smile passed his lips and he opened the window. "John. What is it?"

"What do you mean, what is it? Get down here and open the door for me, damnit!" John stage-whispered back, "and please keep your voice down!"

"No need for cursing, John, why can't you let yourself in?" asked Sherlock at the same conversational volume as before.

"I haven't got my keys, you prick, now please, I really can't afford to be seen."

"Is someone after you?" Sherlock asked, sounding slightly intrigued.

"No, but they will be soon if you don't get down here and let me in!"

Hearing all the patience drain from John's voice, Sherlock relented, head disappearing from the window and trotted down the stairs, opening the door. John was in the middle of pushing past him as Sherlock asked, "Why not simply ring the bell, John?"

"Because," hissed John, "Mrs Hudson always answers that, and I hardly need her seeing _this_."

Sherlock made his way upstairs behind John, who closed the door behind him and sighed heavily, sliding down the inside of the door in sheer, exhausted relief to be home, just barely catching a flicker of a smile on Sherlock's face.

"You enjoyed that, did you? You like playing deliberately obtuse when I'm in distress?"

"You weren't in any physical danger, and yes, I found it most entertaining. Though I must ask, why exactly _are_ you naked, John?"

John felt his cheeks flush even more than they had been. "I got kicked out."

"Of Jenny…no, Jenine, no…"

"Becky's," supplied John.

"In that state?" mused Sherlock "You must have done something dreadful. How far away is that anyway? A mile, two?"

"A million, by the feel of it. And yes, I said something wrong."

"Quite wrong, I would guess. And by the state of your dress, or shall we say _undress, _there is only one circumstance in which you could have said the wrong thing. Now if it had been a previous girlfriend's name, she would have been angry, of course, but this reaction is extreme, so it was the name of someone she didn't know, or … oh...Oh!" Sherlock's eyes went wide for a moment, then he snapped quickly around, giving John some semblance of privacy.

John's cheeks turned a cherry red and his head felt dizzy from the blood rushing from his brain to add to the tint. "It wasn't that," insisted John, somewhat unconvincingly.

"No," Sherlock cleared his throat momentarily, "no, I'm sure it wasn't. I must have gotten a detail wrong somehow. No matter, I'm back to my studies," and he strode off toward the microscope again.

John stood up, pretending tonight hadn't just happened. "I'm off for a shower; those alleyways are disgusting." He could still feel the grit between his toes. "And perhaps a tetanus shot, just to be on the safe side."

"Hm? Oh. Good," replied Sherlock, staring steadily at nothing through his microscope, having forgotten to put in a slide.

"Good."

"Fine."

"Fine." And off John trotted to the shower, barely even noticeable but for Sherlock's peripheral vision.

As he heard the taps come on, Sherlock finally relaxed back into his chair and pondered.


End file.
